


The Heist

by Endangered_Slug



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Bonnet drama without the bonnets, F/M, Hopeless Romantic, Romance, Rumbelle Secret Santa 2015, regency au, there's a plot if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2017-04-19
Packaged: 2018-05-07 21:36:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 14,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5471585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Endangered_Slug/pseuds/Endangered_Slug
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Miss Belle French is desperate to find a cherished heirloom and goes to great lengths to recover it. Along the way, she meets the mysterious Mr. Gold and finds more than her missing ring.  Jane Austen novel AU, Rumbelle Secret Santa written for Lady-Therion</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Belle

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lady-Therion](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Lady-Therion).



Sir Maurice, a likeable man, had an eccentricity towards inventing. His inventions consisted of mostly small household improvements plus a few larger mechanical devices that had earned him a respectable reputation among other eccentric inventors, but nothing that brought him fame or patronage among the rich peerage and he remained in obscurity until his oldest brothers’ deaths brought him back to his ancestral home at Avonlea with all the lands and titles and responsibilities that came with it. Indeed, his biggest and best accomplishment was in marrying a local woman of superior understanding and incredible patience for her absent-minded husband. Lady French, herself the daughter of a neighboring gentleman, was pretty enough to tempt a younger son of a Baronet and came with a respectable dowry and a bit of property that was to be handed down to her issue should any arise. They had between them one surviving daughter, a sweet girl they named Arabella who inherited her mother’s love of learning and her father’s sense of wonder — a perfect mix of the two and the three of them lived happily in a small cottage which bordered Maurice's family’s estate.  
  
For ten happy years, they lived in their own satisfied contentment. The point of succession did not depend on Maurice, nor was the family name his obligation. He had two brothers, the oldest of which took his job as family head with all the seriousness that it was due, but had died before his wife had produced an heir. Maurice’s next oldest brother had been at sea when this event occurred, but, before he could receive news of it, he had been killed in battle at Santo Domingo. This tragic event was how poor Maurice had found himself the sitting Baronet without any real knowledge of how he should perform his office and without an heir to to carry on the family name. His father had not thought to educate the younger sons on how an estate should be run, instead putting all his faith in the kindness of nature that his firstborn would live to see the succession fulfilled. Sir Maurice, his mind ever turned by his experiments, was ill-equipped to handle the responsibility with any real success.  
  
Life at the cottage for little Belle was filled with days spent reading or drawing with her mama or tinkering in the workshop with her papa. In the honeysuckle scented summers she explored along the small stream that ran along the back and lazy days warming by the fire with a good book in her hand filled her wintertime. She adored stories of knights and dragons and bandits and heroism most of all and the sound of her playacting could be heard any given day of the week. She had known no other life than this and the pursuit of knowledge was largely left up to her discretion. Fortunately, she had her papa’s natural curiosity and her mother’s good sense and, by the time they were moved to Avonlea, had a handful learning to prepare her for her new status as a young lady of some worth.  
  
Avonlea was a vastly different home than the old cottage and, at first, Belle missed her life terribly. There were a lot more people around for one, their need for servants having tripled now that they lived in a grand estate and she felt herself grow shy among all these new people who now addressed her as Miss French instead of Belle as she preferred, or worse, Young Miss, which sounded wrong to her ears. The house was so much bigger, too, but that turned out to be in its favor as there were more rooms and attics to explore than she had previously enjoyed, as well as a small, secret passageway that led from her papa’s study all the way down to a tiny closet in the back, which in turn, led by way of a dank and close passage, to a door hidden beneath a curtain of red roses. Sir Maurice explained to his curious child that it was a priest’s hole assuring her that it had never been used in his family. But Belle’s imagination took flight and, after the priest’s hole had been discovered  — never mind that her own papa had shown it to her for her amusement — she would spend her days concocting splendid stories of adventure, popping up in the study at any moment so much that they had taken to call it the "Bellefry". This was how it went on until the day came when Colette felt that Belle’s education had surpassed her own knowledge and, after much discussion and a fair amount of tears, Belle was to be sent off to finishing school. She was distraught about leaving her parents and her home, but the prospect of learning and new adventures had reconciled her to the idea and, after three years at Avonlea, packed up her trunks and left for Miss Prufrock’s Seminary for Young Ladies.  
  
Belle had many adventures at school, but not many she would remember with any fondness. Her parents had expected her to make good friends once she overcame her initial shyness, but the people she met had had such an entirely different upbringing than her that they all had difficulty understanding each other. Most of the young ladies were born into their titles, though a few, like her, had found themselves newly made. It was a lonely time for Belle, something she kept strict silence about lest she worry her beloved parents and her letters home were filled with all the thing she was learning and the teachers who instructed her and the servants she met, but was rather thin of any talk of friends. She had opportunity to stargaze and chart the night’s sky as well as learn how to sit still and eat with her elbows off the table. She’d left Avonlea a scrawny master-escapist who spent her days alternately fighting bandits or leading them, and, upon completion of her formal learning, returned a lady with a peculiar fondness for daydreaming and a newly discovered gift for drawing. The school had not thought it beneficial to teach its pupils any more than that and Belle felt cheated out of a proper education.  
  
Their happy reunion was short-lived. Six months after Belle’s coming home, her mother succumbed to a pleurisy that had devastated their small village. Soon Belle found herself grieving both her mother and her father whose spirits never recovered fully after the passing of his beloved wife. Belle quietly took over the running of the household as Maurice closeted himself away with his instruments and gadgets leaving the both of them lonely and heartsick. His heart was no longer in his work and Belle found herself unable to mourn her mother properly because she was too busy trying to keep her father from following his wife in death. He spent the early days trapped in a fog, eating and sleeping only when told. Not even his workshop could distract him from his immense grief, but time did its job and, after a year, they found that their wounds were not as deep as they had been.  
  
With Colette gone, Maurice had no one to prevent his impulsive habit of backing any promising young man who came to his attention with one small thing or another they were hoping to promote. While Colette was alive, she’d kept his patronage at bay, but, now that she was no longer alive to temper his enthusiasm, he paid handsomely to finance several innovators whose experiments interested him. All of them failed. It was a nice notion, but Maurice’s fortune was not great by any stretch and he didn’t think to cut back on his sponsorships until it was too late. He eventually found himself on the wrong end of his creditors until, four years after Colette's death, he was forced to sell his family home in a desperate effort to retrench.  
  
His agent had quickly found a buyer in one Mr. Robert Gold, a Scotsman who had made an immense fortune in trade and was now looking for a small estate in the country where, one presumed, he would learn to be respectable. Belle had barely been made aware of her father's financial straghts before she found herself dismissing servants and packing up her trucks once more. They would relocate back to their cottage which had been a part of Colette’s portion and would be handed down to Belle upon her marriage should such an occasion arise.    



	2. The Ring

They had been installed at the cottage for less than a week, her days filled with all the unpacking and organizing their household and directing those servants that had chosen to remain with them about their new duties, when Belle discovered that her mother’s treasured ring was missing. It was a small thing, rather plain and unadorned with gems, but it had been handed down for generations and Belle used to be fond of playing with it as she sat in her mother’s lap listening to the soft sound of Colette’s voice as she spun tales of fairies and imps and the fantastical beasts that roamed the earth in the old days. Belle had spent many an afternoon perched on her mother’s knee, learning about heroes and damsels and how to see the world for more than what was on its surface. After her mother’s death, it had been kept in her father’s apartments in a carved wooden box lined with red velvet, a memento he could not bear to look at, and Belle, ever sensitive to his feelings, allowed it to be tucked away out of sight. She reminded her papa about it more than once during their packing up lest it be left behind and he had reassured her that he would remember it before turning the house over to Mr. Gold’s steward. The ring was one of the last tangible pieces of her mother that she had; to lose the it now would be a terrible blow.  
  
She scoured her room for the box, sure that it had made the journey but, not seeing it anywhere, flew to her papa’s room where, after a frantic search through his things, she came out empty handed and feeling sick.  
  
“Papa!” she cried out, running down the narrow stairs to the front parlor, inelegantly wiping her eyes on her arm. “Papa, we’ve lost Mama’s ring.”  
  
She found him standing by the fire staring at the flames with an uneasy expression on his face, but he managed a smile when he saw her. “What’s this, my dear petal?” he asked in a soft and weary voice.  
  
“Mama’s ring,” she said again, wringing her hands together in agitation. “We must have left it behind—”  
  
The worry behind her papa’s eyes diminished somewhat. “That's fine, Belle. We’ll simply go tomorrow and retrieve it. Please don’t work yourself up over the ring. You know it's not valuable.”  
  
Belle knew this, but although it was no longer stylish, it held a piece of her history and Belle was sorry to have left it behind. She felt sure that Maurice would have remembered it, would know that it was important to her, but, she also should have known that he would be too distracted in his grief about his financial ruin to remember such an insignificant detail as this small ring. She was hurt by the dismissal, wondering at his equanimity whilst she was so distraught. Did he not feel the loss as keenly as she did? Or, she considered with a start, perhaps, he was feeling the loss of the woman herself rather than the ring that represented her. Of course! Of course her father was thinking of Colette, this was their home before Avonlea and, as they were so happy here, the cottage was filled with her absence.  
  
Feeling overcome for him, she wrapped an arm around his shoulder, leaning her head on his chest before she was able to reply with any composure. “Yes, Papa, you’re right of course. I'll pay a visit to Mr. Gold’s housekeeper in the morning and explain what happened.” She plastered a bright smile on her face — just enough to fool him — then bade him a good night.  
  
The next morning dawned gray and sullen and the ground was covered in a thick dew which clung to her skirts, muddying them up unforgivably. It was a short walk to Avonlea, but it was dirty and damp and Belle found herself looking for a shallow way to cross more than once as the road was severely pocked and puddled. Still, she pushed on knowing it would only be a matter of minutes before she held her mother’s ring in her hands once more.  
  
Her reception at Avonlea was not what she expected, and, indeed, the new housekeeper proved to be a sour-faced woman who took one glance at Belle’s ruined dress and her heated and flushed face and the way her hair had fallen out of her bonnet and immediately dismissed her on sight.  
  
“Please, I must speak to Mr. Gold,” Belle began, but the housekeeper cut her off with a sneer.  
  
“He’s not here and, even if he was, he’s not hiring,” the woman told her abruptly, her brash voice cutting through the air like a knife. “We don’t take in charity cases off the street and Mr. Gold doesn’t dally in the petticoat line.”  
  
Belle gasped, insulted as she fully grasped the housekeeper’s meaning. “I beg your pardon, Madam,” she sputtered but the other lady cut her off.  
  
“The only thing I see is a trollop who needs to crawl back from whence she came. Now be off before I have you forcibly removed from the premises,” she snapped, sniffing down her nose while Belle stared at her in bewildered humiliation.  
  
The door was slammed shut and the bolt engaged all the while Belle stared at it, open mouthed and hurt. It had to be a mistake, some strange and cruel joke, but the longer she stood there, waiting for the door to open with the housekeeper issuing a full apology, the more she realized that, even though she was still considered a lady both in birth and station, she was now dirt poor and of little consideration. She felt sure that she would have been admitted had she been able to give her name, but the housekeeper hadn’t even given her the chance.  
  
Disgraced and bitterly disappointed at being denied the courtesy of a hearing, she stomped back home, too angry to cry. If the housekeeper had seen Belle then, she would have summoned a constable, but as she was safely tucked away in the kitchen, probably ordering the poor scullery maid about, she did not know just how poorly Belle held her in esteem.  
  
Belle’s thoughts were filled with all the things she might have said to reason with the woman, or things she might have said that would make the woman turn as green as her name and choke with apoplexy, but Belle was a lady and had it drilled into her by stern mistresses that a lady never made a scene no matter how dire the situation. She thought it was all a load of hogwash, but Belle had not stood a chance against the woman who barred her entry into the house and kept her from pleading her case with the as yet unseen Mr. Gold.  
  
Well, it was one thing to be denied, but Belle knew that house better than anyone and before she passed through the gate at the cottage, a plan had already begun to formulate in her mind.  
  
She slipped back into the house quietly, unwilling to disturb her papa, who no doubt had already forgotten about the ring entirely and had begun to bury himself in his work once more. She might see him at dinner, or he may disappear in his workroom for a week, not to be disturbed until he collapsed in an exhaustive heap.  
  
For the moment this was fine with Belle — she had her own schemes to set in motion.


	3. The Heist

The plan was quite simple. She would walk back to Avonlea under the cover of night, sneak in via the priest’s hole, go to her father’s suite to retrieve the ring, and be out before a quarter of an hour passed. Mr. Gold was out of town, she had the housekeeper’s word on that, the rest of it was easy. It was unlikely that anyone knew of the secret passage way yet so the door would not be barred. She knew exactly where to step, knew which floorboards creaked and where the shadows were at all times of day. They wouldn’t even miss the ring for no one outside of her family knew of its existence. Then, once she had her prize, she would come home to her father and pretend she had never heard of anyone named Mr. Gold again. In her opinion, anyone who employed such rude servants would surely be just as awful.  
  
Belle wished to borrow a pair of trousers feeling certain that it would make the trip and the burglary easier, but they no longer employed a groom and their manservant lived in town so there were no breeches at hand. She’d given serious thought as to raiding her father’s wardrobe, but Maurice was so large a man that anything of his would hinder her even more than her own clothes. In the end, she put on her oldest gown and buttoned her worn nankeen boots up without difficulty. She opted to braid her hair out of the way to keep it from falling in her face and to prevent a stray pin from accidentally falling and giving evidence that a burglary had taken place. Not that she expected anyone to know. If everything went to plan, no one would suspect anyone had been inside the house. But the tingle of adventure had taken over her imagination and she liked to think that she was clever for thinking about her pins and how one might fall and how leaving them out of her hair entirely furthered her cause.  
  
As dangerous as her plan was, the thrill of doing something so wholly improper and illicit — even though she was convinced that she was in the right — sent a tremor of anticipation through her. Nothing short of divine intervention would prevent her from completing the task she’d set before her. She would have the ring in her possession within two hours.  
  
The moon was hovering just above the tree line as she started, her cloak the only thing keeping her warm before the exertion of her walk took over. It was three miles to Avonlea and she made quick work of it along the road knowing that no one would be out and about at this time of night. It occurred to her that she might be little bit more frightened of meeting a vagrant or, perhaps a bear, but, having lived within this five square miles for most of her life, she knew that there was nothing to be afraid of. Indeed, she felt powerful as she strode towards her former home; the only thing to be afraid of right now was herself. _Let no one get in my way_ , she thought as she slipped through the rungs of the iron gate and tread softly on the gravel driveway towards the back of the house where the roses grew in a thick tangle.  
  
Just as she expected, the hidden door was still undiscovered by the new inhabitants and soon she had the trick lock opened and was inside the house before many minutes were gone. The passage way was dark, but she knew it by heart even though she hadn't explored it for years. The priest hole was exactly as she’d left it and, after listening for movement or sound on the other side, she pushed the door that led into the study and, as simple as that, she was inside Avonlea once more.  
  
Thus far, her plan had worked without flaw, but she had not taken into account that the new owner’s habits might be different from her own and, as she rounded the corner with the suite of rooms her father had once used in her sight, a man’s growling voice startled her out of her complacency.  
  
“How did you get in here?” he said from behind her, his  gravely voice wrapping around her like a noose, sending a shaft of icy fear down her spine. It was heavily accented and husky and sounded as if the man was begrudgingly in awe of her daring. “What are you after?”  
  
Belle gasped in shock, her heart thudding in her throat as she slowly turned around — truly her dancing master would be so proud at the grace that managed to finally find her after so many years of disappointment — and came face to face with the strange man. Her mouth parted as she searched for an excuse, but none came to her trembling lips. There was nothing she could say to explain herself, she was wrongfully trespassing and, though the ring belonged to her, it was impossible to prove. She had been caught.  
  
The man before her was only several inches taller than herself and trimly built. Belle supposed him to be a servant of Mr. Gold. Not his valet, of course, he wasn’t stylishly dressed enough for that. Perhaps he was a groom or a manservant of some sort as he looked a bit rough, but, no, he carried a walking stick and one that looked functional rather than fashionable so neither of those occupations seemed to fit. The moon was hidden through a thick bank of clouds so it was nearly impossible to see his face underneath the fringe of hair that fell over his face, but she could tell that his eyes were dark and large and shining as he looked his fill of her in turn. He cocked his head, eyeing her as if trying to solve a puzzle.  
  
“Pretty little robber,” he said just loud enough to fall upon her ears, a bewildered smile emerging upon his lips as he looked upon her in wonderment. “Who are you,” he asked, stepping closer, his hand outstretched as if to snatch her up and bring her to his master for punishment.  
  
“I—“ she began, but her mind went blank once more as her precarious situation became clearer to her. She would be handed over as a thief. She would be sent to prison. Perhaps shipped off amongst the other lawbreakers and then her dear papa really would die of a broken heart. Her breathing grew labored and she could feel a panic begin to well up as she tried to think her way out of her predicament. She had not expected to get caught. Indeed, the idea hadn’t even been considered — her plan had been so simple. Why did this man have to spoil everything? She wished him to the devil for his unfortunate timing.  
  
“Well?” he insisted, his irritation growing at her continued silence. “Aren’t you going say anything?”  
  
“Sir, I shall…” Belle said, breathless with her increasing alarm. She glanced once more at his cane before meeting his gaze with her own, managing a tremulous smile as her escape made itself known. “I shall run,” she retorted with as much dignity as she could manage before she hiked up her skirts and ran, her cloak billowing behind her like a dark cloud, his sputtering shout and quick grasp at her clothes were too late.    
  
Belle dodged him easily and fled back toward the study where she’d left the priest’s hole door ajar in anticipation for her getaway. She would have to find another way to recover her ring some other time. For now, her only thought was to escape the man in the hallway and the law. He would not be able to catch her, nor would he know about the priest’s hole just yet. There was still a possibility that she could flee Avonlea and be home before he had a chance to rouse the household. They would, no doubt search the roads and the perimeter of the woods, but the forest was like a second home to her and she knew its secret paths. Provided Mr. Gold didn’t keep a pack of hounds, she would be home before dawn.  
  
She flew, the stranger’s voice calling after her, his accent thick and almost indistinguishable to her frightened ears, but she turned a corner, then another before she came upon the study. She dove in without looking back and was at the secret doorway — now closed tight behind her — and out into the rose bower before many more minutes passed.  
  
She expected the entire house to be in uproar by then. Lights on and servants spilling out of the house like ants, but all was quiet inside and Belle thanked her lucky stars for the small reprieve. She would still take the long way through the woods just in case the mysterious servant alerted his master as to her break in.   
  
Hot, disappointed tears fell down her cheeks and she marched home as quickly as she could, heartbroken and in despair at ever seeing her mother’s ring again. She didn’t know what to do or to whom she should apply for assistance. Would the servant know her if she came to Avonlea with her father on a social visit? The hallway had been dark and the moon obscured by clouds, but she could not afford to think that he would not recognize her if she entered the house again. She dare not go back — her mother’s ring was irretrievable.


	4. The Ball

Three months passed since the night of the attempted heist and Belle was nearly reconciled that her mother’s ring was gone. Sir Maurice had paid a visit to the new master of Avonlea just once — more formality than a wish to cultivate an acquaintance and only at Belle’s gentle admonition did he remember to change his cravat and polish his shoes before he left in their small carriage. Belle wanted desperately to go with him, but she was still afraid of the man who had nearly captured her to risk the chance of asking Mr. Gold to return her property. She reminded her papa, more than once, about her mother’s ring hoping that Sir Maurice would remember at the last.  
  
He didn’t.  
  
There was nothing left then, Belle realized after spending a night in sleepless despair. The father she had known and loved as a child would never have been so thoughtless — not before her mother had passed. Naturally absent minded, yes, but he had never been so dismissive of her feelings before and, once she accustomed herself that her father was now an irrevocably changed man, she began the slow, agonizing process of mourning a parent before they died.  
  
She busied herself with the small household tasks that kept the household running smoothly and re-familiarized herself with the cottage and its surrounding gardens. The small, cozy library and the long thatch of overgrown dahlias that clung to the east side of the stone walls near the tidy lane leading up to the cottage brought back such sweet memories of her childhood and it seemed to Belle as if her mother was just around the next corner and if only she hurried she might catch up.  
  
It was during one such morning, when Belle felt particularly lonely, that she received a card from Lady Nolan inviting her to the first of a series of balls promised to keep the long winter months tollerable. Lady Nolan was famous for her soirees and Belle found herself nostalgic for the simpler times when the prospect of dancing and lively conversation was all it took to get her spirits up. Had the invitation arrived the week before, Belle would have politely declined, but she felt the need to be among people again and so she dashed off her acceptance before she could talk herself out of it.  
  
The upcoming ball was the talk of the town now that the leading families had begun to return from Town after the Season and soon every available seamstress was employed in making gowns or the doing up of old ones for those that couldn’t afford new. Belle, though her situation had been greatly reduced, was still the daughter of a Baronet and still a valuable guest in that her lively mind and kind nature were sure to make her popular among the other guests. She had some old gowns stored up in lavender and she had her faithful maid Ruby bring them down so that she may take stock and see what alterations might be applied.  
  
Her favorite, a gown of golden silk satin was shaken out and put aside for steaming. It required little by way of alterations— some minor repairs to the embroidery work across the bodice and the latest styles called for a flounce of rosettes scattered about the hem, but it was an undertaking Belle could do herself with little difficulty and she set about her task with more enthusiasm than she was used to. She began to look forward to the ball and practiced her steps in the privacy of her room in anticipation of an evening spent on her feet. She had been a better pupil than a dancer and the master in charge of her education despaired at her ever learning the art with any grace. The prospect of company even if for a few hours excited her and she promised herself that, when the ball was over, she would begin to go about in the world once more. It wasn’t good for her to shut herself up in the house with her father every day. The village she resided in had many friends who would receive her, Lady Nolan being the foremost of them, but there were others who had expressed their well wishes over the past several months. She had never returned their visits, an act that made her feel ashamed of herself and the way she let herself descend into misery.  
  
The day of the ball came and Belle made herself ready, curling the fringe around her face in the new fashion and her hair set in a coil high on top of her head with enameled combs. Another relic other mother’s, a small pearl drop on a thin chain around her neck, was her only ornament. She’d sold most of her valuables when she first learned of her father’s financial distress, but this she could not part with. The gold dress was slipped on and the buttons done up, her dancing slippers tied with new ribbon, the gloves slid over her arms, and her cloak fastened firmly around her neck completed her ensemble. Belle found herself nearly giddy with anticipation as she sat with Sir Maurice, stuffed and buttoned into his coat and bullied into a convivial mood, and tucked underneath a thick woven blanket in their carriage heading towards Charming Manor in speedy time.  
  
The driveway was lit with torches and they had to wait for ten minutes before their carriage was able to pull up to the front steps, a footman waiting to hand them down, where they joined the throng of elegantly dressed people in the receiving line before being admitted into the ballroom. The buzz of talk revolved around one thing: the infamous Mr. Gold had accepted the Nolan’s kind invitation and was currently inside drinking champagne as if he was born to it. Some people were aghast that the Nolans had invited him as even his vast wealth could not make up for the fact that it had been made in trade. They thought him too low-born to endure one evening spent in his company, but a few vocal souls thought that such prejudice was unbecoming. The man was obviously intelligent to have come so far in life and his fortune was such that it could overcome even the most unfortunate of origins. Belle, herself of good family, but poor beginnings was inclined to think the later, but her inability to look past her mother’s missing ring had soured her upon Mr. Gold and any great strides towards social status he might make.  
  
She had no real reason to dislike the man having never met him in her life, but she was disinclined to think well of him for employing such terrible servants. She had been taught that the servants one employed was oftentimes a reflection upon their masters and, given her reception that first day and the excruciating embarrassment that followed, she had no reason to expect him to be anything but selfish and unpleasant. She did mean to make his acquaintance, however, in an effort to retrieve her mother’s ring at last. Doing so publicly and among her peers boosted her confidence and she bravely walked into the ballroom, searching for the elusive Mr. Gold.  
  
Her problem lie in the fact that she had no idea what the man looked like. There were several men who were unknown to her, but careful inquiries told her that none of them were the man she sought and there was such a crush of people that it was impossible to see everyone without standing on a table. Her father, after taking a turnabout the room arm in arm with his daughter, had quickly abandoned her in favor of the card room where he would spend a few hours at whist.  
  
She would have to ask her hosts for an introduction and she meant to do so immediately following their duties at the receiving line, but the musicians struck up as soon as Sir Nolan and his lady entered the ballroom and Belle found herself confronted, face to chest, with a tall man whose handsome features were marred by his haughty demeanor.  
  
“Miss French,” he said, a smug smile twisting his mouth unbecomingly as his eyes glittered underneath a mop of hair combed forward into an ill-advised “Brutus”. “It’s good to see your beautiful face out amongst the public again.” He leaned towards her, towering over her in a most uncomfortable way. “You know I very nearly declined my invitation, but then I heard that you had accepted and it was that which induced me to come tonight. And I’m so glad I did. You are, as always, the most beautiful woman in the room.”  
  
There was no reply sufficient to express her feelings at being addressed in such a manner so Belle merely nodded her thanks with a tight-lipped smile. “Sir Gaston, you’re just as I saw you last,” she replied as sweetly as she was able after such unbecoming flattery. “I take it your business was concluded in Town?” she asked to gather if he would be staying in the country or traveling back to London after the ball, the latter being preferable.  
  
“Dear Miss French, always so concerned with myself,” he boomed, turning the heads of several people nearby. “But I came over to ask if you would do me the honor to dance with me,” he said with a short bow, his hand held out to take hers in expectation of consent.  
  
The rules of polite society that stated a lady may refuse a dance were fair, but that she may no longer dance with another after having refused a partner were decidedly unfair and trapped many a reluctant female into dancing with someone they would rather avoid. Not wishing to be stuck on the sidelines for the entire evening, Belle nodded her acceptance with a quiet, “thank you,” and accepted his proffered arm, allowing herself to be led to the set which was just forming on the floor.  
  
The dance plodded on as she impatiently made her way down the line, the caller barely heard over the din of the music and chatter of the partygoers, she had begun to regret her decision to ever step out of her house that night when she caught sight of a curious man hovering just on the edge of the observers who looked as out of place as she felt. His limping gait, the gold topped cane, and the simple way his hair was tied back with a black ribbon — so out of place among the fashionable was entirely unusual that she found her attention was drawn to him at the expense of her partner. Each turn, each allemande, every bow she sought him out trying to decipher where she’d seen this man before. So intent was she in searching for him that, once she reached the end of the line, she found herself face to face with the mysterious stranger and his bemused smile.  
  
He was closer to her father’s age than her own, but he held himself with a dignity that clashed with the delighted smirk on his unconventionally handsome face. Rugged, was the first word that popped into her mind, then handsome as she felt herself caught in his intense gaze - his eyes were large and deeply expressive and she felt naked under his scrutiny. His hair was graying at the temples and in his sideburns and shot through with more silver strands throughout. He had a long, thin, crooked nose that came to a point at the end underneath which were thin lips that quirked up at the edges and bracketed by deep lines as he smiled his pleasure at her. She curtsied at his perfunctory bow then lifted her gaze to meet his eyes bravely, a suspicion beginning to form in her mind as to who this person was. Gaston, standing next to Belle with a sneer of derision on his face, nodded his head in the slightest acknowledgement of the other gentleman. There could be no better examples of opposites than seeing Gaston towering over this stranger. Both of them impeccably dressed in the latest style, the younger man nevertheless held himself in such high regard that he could barely be reduced to speaking the other with anything resembling politeness.  
  
“I take it you know Mr. Gold, Miss French?” he said in a voice that spoke of his distaste. “Nasty business when families of good standing have to make way for those who don’t deserve their good fortune,” he added under his breath, loud enough for both of them to hear.  
  
At the mention of her name, Mr. Gold raised an eyebrow at her as he pressed his lips into a tight line as if to keep from laughing, mirth shining in his soft brown eyes as he looked her over once again, assessing her anew. “I’ve not made the acquaintance until now, but I thank you in performing the office. It saves me the trouble of asking Lady Nolan to do the honors.” He glanced up at Gaston with an amused look in his eyes then turned his attention back to Belle, clearly dismissing him from their presence.  
  
“Miss French has the next set with me,” Sir Gaston started, blustering his way pompously into an argument.  
  
“Does she?” Gold asked, looking straight at her. “Well, I’m sure Miss French will be plagued with dances tonight and so I know you won’t mind if I cut in. That is, if Miss French has no objections,” he added, letting her have the final decision.  
  
“I have no objections, Mr. Gold,” she said with another bob of a curtsy. “Sir Gaston,” she said, barely glancing at the hulking figure. “You’ll excuse us?”  
  
Gaston strode away, imperious and arrogant, and probably determined to harass a servant holding a tray of champagne. The crowd first parted and then engulfed him amid the colorful silks and feathered headdresses of the glittering throng and Belle was able to breath freely once more.  
  
“Sir Gaston spoke poorly just them,” Belle said after an awkward silence. “I apologize.”  
  
“Nothing I haven’t heard before and nothing you need to apologize for, I assure you,” he said brightly, with a careless shrug of his shoulders, his undivided attention all on her. “Do you waltz?” he asked as a lilting musical air sounded over the room, sending a series of fans aflutter with excitement. There had been no mention of waltzing on the invitations.  
  
She looked at him in askance. “I— very poorly. My dancing master thought I was a hopeless case,” she said with a rueful smile.  
  
“Neither do I. Dance well, I mean,” he said with a self-deprecating look, lifting up his cane by way of explanation.  
  
“The waltz was never performed so early before,” she said for lack of anything better to say.  
  
He shrugged.  
  
“Times change, tastes change, people change. This year the waltz is danced before midnight, next year it’ll start every insufferable assembly across the nation, and, the year after that, something new will come along to disturb our delicate sensibilities.” He spoke in such a teasing manner, his Scottish accent and the warm tone of his voice so pleasing to her ears that she nearly forgot her annoyance with him and the reason for wanting to meet with him in the first place.  
  
She laughed, then, looking up at him, his surprise at her cheerfulness self-evident on his face. “You are probably correct, sir. I remember when it was barely thought decent enough to dance in public. But,” she said, kindly. “My hopes do not depend on dancing a waltz tonight if you’d rather not, sir.”  
  
He smiled, a glint of a gold tooth on the bottom of his teeth surprising her as well as his frank manner of speaking. “I never really learned to dance these sorts of dances, Miss French; it has never interested me before. My interest, however, _has_ been piqued now that I’ve met you.”  
  
Belle frowned at him. “How is that, sir?” But an unsettling recognition began to form. The cane, his accent, and his slight frame, they all pointed to one person: the servant that was not a servant in the upper hallway in Avonlea. It had been Mr. Gold the entire time. She should have figured it out earlier.  
  
“I feel as if I’ve met you before,” he said, his voice low enough to sit in her belly like a molten ball of lead.  
  
Belle’s lip parted and her breath quickened. “It was you that night wasn’t it? In Avonlea?” she asked. For the first time in her life she felt faint and she wished the floor would open and swallow her whole. She saw it all now, there was no servant in the hallway that night, it was Mr. Gold himself, come home early from his travels unless Mrs. Green had lied about him being away.  
  
“It was,” he smiled, his strange gold tooth gleaming in the low light. “And you are my pretty little burglar. What I want to know is how you got in.”  
  
“I wasn’t there to steal, Mr. Gold,” she whispered, her voice cracking under the weight of her guilt. She lowered her gaze, unable to meet his eyes any longer. She settled on his cravat, a froth of white silk puffed up under his neck and set with a jeweled pin anchoring it in place. It was an unfortunate choice to stare at seeing as how he’d already suspected her of burglary.  
  
He jerked his head back in disbelief. “Weren’t you?”  
  
She would never be able to recover her voice she felt. It seemed to have disappeared along with her fortitude. “I was there to recover lost property. That is all.” She looked up from his cravat, meeting his eyes in a brave attempt to prove her innocence.  
  
“You left something then?”  
  
She nodded. “My mother’s ring. It got left behind and I… I thought if I just went and got it back no one would know.”  
  
“This ring, Miss Thief,” he asked, slipping his watch out of its pocket in his waistcoat, checking the time before snapping the lid closed again. “It’s important to you? So important you would risk your life breaking into a house?”  
  
She felt all the air rush out of her lungs. “Yes! It was never meant to be left at Avonlea, but in our haste, it was forgotten.”  
  
Gold nodded his head, looking back out at the dancers who had just ended the last set and were milling about, either changing partners or waiting to be sought out for the next dance. It felt now that they had been shouting over the din of music, and she lowered her voice lest their nearest neighbor should overhear her shame.  
  
He shook his head, the fringe of hair swaying gently. He looked at her, then, tilting head to eye her carefully. “Is it an heirloom then?”  
  
“Yes,” she whispered, fingering the pearl drop on her necklace. “It’s not valuable, but it means a lot to me. I would like it back, sir.”  
  
He smiled at her, thinly. His eyes no longer warm and soft. A mask seemed to fall over his face and there was an implacable hardness to him now. No longer was there teasing mirth. “And you thought breaking into a man’s home was a good idea?”  
  
Her mouth opened and closed, unable to form words. She must have looked like a particularly stupid goldfish to Mr. Gold, but as much as she wanted to hate him, she knew she’d been in the wrong, both for forgetting the ring and then the attempted not-quite-a-robbery. She felt so embarrassed now that she was found out. “To be honest, I didn’t think of it at all,” she admitted, finally.  
  
“Yes, I gathered as much,” he said, sarcastically.  
  
She glared at him, quelling the need to stamp her foot in a fit. “You could be kinder.”  
  
He bowed his head in acknowledgment. “And you could be more truthful. Why were you in my house?”  
  
“I told you, I needed my ring back!” she hissed.  
  
“And that was all?” he asked, his eyes piercing into her.  
  
“What else is there?” she retorted and was surprised when he barked out a mirthless laugh at her.  
  
“What else indeed?” he said. “I shall fish this ring out of hiding and return it to you in the morning, Miss Thief, if that is acceptable to you.”  
  
Shocked at this sudden turn of events, a pleasant warmth of victory spreading throughout her breast, she nodded. “That would be very good of you, sir.”  
  
He bowed, shorty, then straightened up with a curious look. “Then I shall bid you goodnight. And if I’m not mistaken, you have another applicant for your hand coming this way,” he said nodding to someone behind her. “I shall not trouble you any longer.”  
  
Belle turned her head to see Will Scarlet making his way towards them with a determined look and, when she turned back around to give her farewell to Mr. Gold, found that he’d already disappeared.  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	5. The Visitor

Mr. Gold arrived as soon as decency allowed and announced to Belle by a puzzled Mrs. Lucas. He came in, bowed, and sat down at Belle’s invitation, hat tossed aside onto a spindly table that could barely hold it.  
  
“Miss Thief,” he began with some crossness, ignoring the way she bristled at the name. “I did not realize just how many things you have left behind. You two are a pair of pack rats. Where on earth did you manage to find all of it?”  
  
Belle, startled to be addressed so abruptly, huffed a short laugh at her guest. “It wasn’t all of ours. The estate had been handed down from Baronet to Baronet for this past age. Most of it was there when we arrived. My father would be able to give you a better inventory than I, he grew up there.” She slumped in her seat. “I take it you were unable to find the ring?”  
  
He shook his head. “I searched the desk you said it would be in, but my steward had already cleaned it out days ago. It wasn’t there. I merely came to keep you informed of the matter. I didn’t want you to worry,” he added with a lingering smile.  
  
She sighed, unable to hide her disappointment. “I appreciate your thoughtfulness.” And it was true. A few lines would have been enough to keep her abreast of the situation, but she could not help but like the man for all his prickly determination to be disliked.  
  
“Why didn’t you just ask my housekeeper for admittance?” he asked incredulously, looking at her as if she’d sprouted another head. “You could have saved yourself a great deal of trouble and an acquaintance I have no doubt you’d rather do without.”  
  
She flushed, hotly, aware that she looked ridiculous. “I did, but she wouldn’t let me in. She insulted me in the worst way.” She looked at her hands, feeling tears well up in the memory. She willed them away, determined not to be weak in front of him. “I was turned away.”  
  
When she looked up again, she’d found he’d leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his forehead creased with worry for her distress, the lines around his mouth deepening as he frowned. She did not like that he took it so personally so she smiled at him, a thin and wavering thing, and shook her head. “I’m fine, sir, I assure you.”  
  
“She did this even after you told her who you were?” he asked, unconvinced and dismayed — as if she had not spoken at all.. His eyes roamed her face, their soft gaze hardening at the sight of the unshed tears she wasn’t able to control.  
  
“She didn’t give me the opportunity, sir!” she told him, looking away to grudgingly swipe at her eyes, sniffling angrily. “She took one look at me and dismissed me as if I were… as if I were a trollop out to seduce you. It was humiliating.”  
  
“I imagine it would be,” he told her sincerely. “It’s demeaning when people don’t give you a chance to prove yourself.”  
  
Belle looked at him, then, realizing that he spoke from experience. He had his lips pressed together in a thin line, a distant memory darkening his brown eyes even more than they had been when he learned of his housekeeper’s perfidy. He glanced up at her, a crooked, self-deprecating smile playing on his lips when he met her eyes. “It’s all a long time ago. I’m too important now to ignore,” he said with a bitterness Belle couldn’t fully understand, but which she felt deep in her bones.  
  
“I can’t imagine anyone being able to ignore you,” she said without thinking, a blush rising up from her neckline to spread over her necking face. “Sorry,” she mumbled.  
  
He blinked, looking at her in such awe that she felt a need to squirm in her seat before he seemed to recover himself, leaning back in his chair — relaxed and suave once more, tapping his fingers on the armrest in thought. “I’ll rectify this at once, Miss French. I apologize for the manner in which you were received at my house and see that Mrs. Green is dismissed at once.” At her startled protest, he raised his hand. “I have no qualms about doing so. She is a disappointment to me in more than this and she would have been dismissed soon anyway. I do not like how she treats my other servants.”  
  
She sat, stunned by his complete trust in her tale. “It’s your house, sir. I have no say in who you choose to employ.”  
  
“Do you have any recommendations for another housekeeper?” he asked. “Who did you employ before?”  
  
That brought a fresh smile to her face in fond remembrance of the little lady who used to work for them. “Mrs. Potts! We weren’t able to keep her with us and were sorry to see her go. She went to live with her son down by Cornwall, but she might be induced to come back if I ask.”  
  
“Mrs. Potts,” he repeated with some amusement. “That’s such a tidy, English name. It brings to mind a sort of squat, cheerful woman, bubbling away as she worked.”  
  
She smiled at him, ducking her head and laughing softly. “You have the way of it, Mr. Gold. She’s just like that, very sweet and very clever, too. You won’t have any problems with her treating your staff abominably.”  
  
“I don’t want them to push her around, mind,” he warned, but the twinkle in his eyes told her that he was merely teasing.  
  
“There’s no worries about that. She’s no tyrant, but she’ll have everything in shipshape condition. You’ll see.”  
  
“I suppose I will,” he mused.  
  
Belle stood up, brushing her muslin straight in an absentminded way then moved to her writing desk. “I’ll write to her now if you’ll post it.”  
  
He nodded, digging into his waistcoat pocket and fished out a silver coin. He flipped the coin at her sending it spinning heads over tails across the room, his smile widening in approval when she expertly caught it in both hands. She set it aside and pulled a fresh sheet of paper towards her, flipping the lid of her inkwell open and dipped in a heavily mended quill. 

Gold said, almost hesitantly, “Tell her I shall arrange for her transportation if she chooses to accept employment. It’s, um… sometimes difficult to find good people to work for me. I’ll understand if she declines.”  
  
Belle’s hand was stilled at his quiet confession, the ink dripping down onto the paper, splotching it terribly. “Oh dear,” she said, taking her blotter in hand, trying to soak up the worst of the spots. “I… I—“  
  
He waved a hand at her again as if to say that it was no matter to him, but she could tell that it smarted sometimes. That people would look down on him no matter how rich or important he made himself.  
  
She wrote her letter hastily in close letters, sealing the coin under the wax for Mrs. Potts to pay the postman with then she handed the letter to Mr. Gold, fingers brushing up against his hand sending a shiver coursing through her blood.  
  
“You are wrong, sir,” she told him, suddenly, a multitude of butterflies suddenly taking flight in her belly, leaving her breathless. “I cannot regret your acquaintance. On the contrary, I feel glad that we met.”  
  
He stared at her intently, face all in confusion as he tried to puzzle out her meaning, but as she was quite frank with him, there was no lie for him to detect.  
  
The sound of hoofbeats sounded outside and Belle, having gone months without any morning callers, looked out the window to see who else would be paying her a visit. She groaned loudly unable to conceal her distaste. It seems that Sir Gaston had decided to stay in town.

* * *

  
A week passed in which Mr. Gold stayed away, but Belle knew he was actively searching for her ring so she concentrated on her father and her work at the house, preparing for a winter of small social gatherings as well as fending off the renewed attentions of Sir Gaston who mistook Belle’s unfailing politeness for interest. He paid her a visit every morning for an hour, trying to entice her to join him in a walk or a ride about the countryside in his phaeton. She had managed to turn him down every time, but she was becoming increasingly annoyed at his persistence and wished that some other young lady might catch his attention and take him out of her neighborhood.  
  
Mr. Gold’s next visit was as disappointing as the last in that he still had not found her ring, but he came bearing a basket of apples from the orchard at Avonlea, famed for their crispness and sweet flavor. She had missed them that autumn and was pleased to see their familiar red skin when he came into the room. By that time, Belle felt nearly comfortable enough near him that she barely curtsied for his slight bow, smiling up at him with pleasure as he took off his hat and sat in the same chair he’d occupied the week before.  
  
“No luck,” she said, noting his empty hands.  
  
He shook his head, a light shining in his eyes as he observed her in the small room. “None this week. My steward has had his hands full this week with business and then there was the sacking of Mrs. Green to see to, which put everything in an uproar. He quite forgot where he put the things he cleared out, but he thinks it may know in which storage room it may be in.”  
  
At her smile, he went on, “It occurred to me, since you spoke so highly of Mrs. Potts that you might want her for yourself.”  
  
“No, her salary is much to high for us now,” she told him, truthfully.  
  
He leaned back, folding his hand together in front of him lap. “And there would be no hard feelings?”  
  
“Oh, no,” she told him, pleasantly. “I like our new housekeeper — Mrs. Lucas you know. She came highly recommended and with her granddaughter who helps me with my… myself,” she finished with a blush. “I don’t quite qualify for a lady's maid anymore, but it’s comforting having her here with me.”  
  
“You seem comfortable discussing money matters, Miss Thief,” he said with a small smile on his face.  
  
“I’m not a thief,” she reminded him, now aware that this was his way of teasing her. “And I don’t see why I shouldn’t be frank about it. It’s no secret why we’re here, after all, and you’re a man of business.”  
  
“Your father isn’t?”  
  
She rolled her eyes, shaking her head. “My father doesn't have a head for finance,” she explained, expecting that to be enough of the matter.  
  
Mr. Gold had other plans though and continued on. “And who bothered themselves about that before?”  
  
She gaped at him then, recovering her composure, said, “My mother, sir. She was the one who kept things going.”  
  
He nodded, silently, giving the matter some more thought. “I see. And did your mother teach you?  
  
“No, she did not think to.” She paused considering. “Perhaps my father would have been more inclined toward taking an active role in our finances had he been taught, but his father had not thought to teach him. It's a series of mistakes,” she said gravely. “One generation not thinking to teach the next simply because they’re a third son or they're female.”    
  
“But your mother learned,” he pointed out, sitting forward.  
  
“She did. She was brilliant.”  
  
“And you're not?” he asked with another strange quirk of his lips.  
  
That earned another short, breathless laugh. “I’m considered odd like my father.”  
  
He looked confused. “And why is that?”  
  
She shrugged, looking out of the window as she considered it. “Because I like to read and I like to know things. I’m not stupid, but I can tell that my education was lacking be so I try to make up for it with books — I don’t like to be ignorant. I tried to do my best when my father confessed that he was… indigent, but by then, it was too late. If he’d let me into his confidence earlier, I might have been able to help more. As it is, he told me too late and expected a miracle. I had just begun to learn when all hope of recovery was dashed.” She turned to look at him, smiling bravely. “I’m still familiarizing myself with his affairs, but at least now the scale is not quite so large.”  
  
The smile lingered on his lips as he gazed at her with warmth. “I don't find that odd in the slightest,” he said softly “I have also acquired a… homemade education, if you will.”  
  
“Have you?” she asked, alert and interested.  
  
It was his turn to gaze out the window, unhappy memories shadowing his features. “Indeed. My scholarship was hard won in Glasgow. I had to fight for every scrap of respect.”  
  
Belle glanced down at his hands wondering how many times they've been bloodied and if that was how the crook in his nose had been earned.  
  
“Is that how you got that scar on your lip?” she blurted out before she thought better of it.  
  
His devious smile and the manner in which he turned his head from the window caught her off-guard, but he laughed and shook his head. “Something like that,” he confessed. “But you must forgive me, Miss Thief. I'm told I'm not supposed to speak of such things to a lady.”  
  
“But I've already told you that I like to learn new things,” she told him, lightly. “And I’m not a thief.”  
  
“So you claim,” he said with a soft smile that reached his eyes as he gazed upon her with wonder. “Well, since you're so interested allow me to tell you about my factory manager, a certain Mr. Thornton…

* * *

Weeks passed by and still Mr. Gold failed to produce the ring until Belle had started to forget there even was a ring to begin with. It lingered there in the back of her mind, but its association with Mr. Gold had ceased to be and she had long since begun to enjoy his visits for their own sake. Along with Mr. Gold she was also called upon by the persistent Sir Gaston and the affable Will Scarlet, a boy she had known since childhood and who was just about to enter into a commission the Army.  
  
Still, her favorite was Mr. Gold because he spoke to her as if she had a brain in her head — even if he insisted on calling her Miss Thief — and he respected her opinions even when they differed from his own. He was intelligent and kind and had a wicked sense of humor that, more often than not, had her doubled over in disgraceful laughter that would put her old school mistress to blush. There was also a sense of unworthiness about him that Belle couldn’t help but want to soothe. She understood that people of dubious birth who had made their fortunes in trade were looked down upon by what was considered good society, but she thought that was a preposterous notion. What difference did it make where a person was born or how they earned their living when they were imaginative and gentle and had eyes that, when they looked at you, made you feel as if you were the sun and they a satellite in faithful revolution? It made no sense to her. It seemed that, if you went far enough, even the highest lord had to start from the lowest beginnings. Why hinder a person simply because his success was new?  
  
There was a decided partiality towards Mr. Gold and she’d begun to look forward to his visits, preparing her toilet in anticipation of that soft catch of his breath when he walked into the room, hat in hand and looking as if he’d primped more than he was wont as well.  
  
Sometimes his visits clashed with Sir Gaston’s or Will Scarlet’s, or worse, all three at once, but Belle made sure to make Mr. Gold feel welcome at the cottage, going so far as to issue an invitation to dinner one night, which only the pressing business in London had forestalled. Her father had not taken to Mr. Gold as Belle had, placing his ire at the loss of Avonlea in the wrong hands. He began to blame Mr. Gold for their reduction in circumstances and he had become irritable at the very mention of the businessman’s name.  
  
“He’s no gentleman,” Sir Maurice would rant whenever it was learned that Mr. Gold had paid another visit and so Belle had learned to keep them quiet lest her father forbid him to enter the house at all.  
  
Belle, for her peace of mind, had taken to meeting him outside, walking with him to a sheltered grove in the garden along the back where they could sit in quiet without the worry of her father intruding upon their talks. It was not as cozy as it had been in her parlor and she hated to force him to walk when he could have been sitting comfortably inside, but fear of her dear papa’s disapprobation kept her out of doors as long as the weather cooperated.  
  
“I’ve looked at the improvements your father has made at Avonlea and I think some of them have potential in manufacture,” Mr. Gold told her one morning as they strolled along the gravel path on their way towards the grove. “His alterations to the cookstove were particularly interesting to my chef.”  
  
“My father made many modifications to the house,” she said, holding her shawl close about her shoulders against a sudden gust of wind. “It was a sort of hobby of his.”  
  
“His hobby… His trade you might say,” Mr. Gold said, looking down at her with a fond smile.  
  
Belle considered it a moment before agreeing. “It’s no secret that my father likes to work, Mr. Gold,” she told him, steadily. “I think it’s admirable, being able to produce something out of nothing. I’ve seen him take a few bits and bobs and put them together to make the cleverest little automaton you’ve ever seen. I still have the little mouse he made me as a girl. You turn a key in its back and it runs in circles. He’s really quite brilliant,” she told him earnestly.  
  
“Children’s toys?” he asked in amusement.  
  
She turned towards him, frustrated with her inability to convey her meaning properly. “They may be toys, but I believe the principle is sound.”  
  
The breeze blew a few curls in her face and, after a moment's hesitation, Gold reached up to gently tuck them back off her face in a gesture that felt intimate and close. “Miss Thief, you are entirely correct. The principle _is_ sound and, applied in the right way, would be just the thing to set your father on a path to recovering his lost fortune.”  
  
“M’not a thief,” she said, automatically, her lips parting as her breath came in rapid bursts. His touch dizzied her, turning her head until  “What-what do you suggest, sir?”  
  
He dropped his hand as if burned, squeezing his fingers together into a fist, the leather of his yellow gloves tightened, in jeopardy of splitting at the seams. “Miss French,” he began, hesitantly. “Do you think your father would be receptive to a meeting with me?”  
  
She paused a moment, knowing that her answer would hurt him, but that he deserved to know the truth. “I-I fear he would not. He has not liked that you’ve been visiting me" It felt as if a stone had lodged in her throat and the thought of hurting her friend brought unbidden tears to her eyes.  
  
A quiet, “I see,” was his only reply, then, “Is this why we’ve been shivering outdoors all these weeks? I had thought you’d finally lived up to your reputation of being odd,” he replied in an attempt to break the mood.  
  
She smiled at him, reassuringly. “My father has objections, but I’ve enjoyed your visits and I would hate for them to end.” She looked up at him. The wind had ruffled his hair, too, and she itched to card her fingers through it. “I hope you won’t let that deter you, sir.”  
  
“And what about the ring?” he said.  
  
“The what?” she asked, confusion written upon her features before she remembered. “Oh, yes. Well, you said yourself that you have been searching Avonlea. I’m sure it will turn up some time.”  
  
He was quiet as they walked on, slowly to make an allowance for his leg, the sweep of her frock on the gravel the only sound other than the rustling of the few leaves left on the shrubbery. Belle bit her lip, feeling as if she’d wounded her guest and regretted her honesty.  
  
“I could never wish to bring you pain, Miss French,” Gold began, slowly, thinking every word through before he spoke. “I am sorry that your father wouldn’t wish to meet with me for I believe he would be a great asset to my company in other circumstances. And, I must admit to a more selfish desire of my own.”  
  
“What would that be, Mr.Gold,” Belle asked him, turning her head up towards him.  
  
He smiled at her, reassuringly. “Why the wish to be out of this wind, Miss French, naturally,” he said affably as she led him towards the arbor.

 


	6. The Engagement

Mr. Gold stayed away for three weeks and Belle was beginning to despair that he would ever return. Will Scarlet had departed for his commission, bidding her a fond farewell and she was sorry to see her old friend go. Sir Gaston, seeing that his only perceived rival had left the county, had begun his advances in earnest. His presence and insistence on overstaying had cast a pall on Belle’s days and she missed her absent friend dearly. The weather had turned as miserable as she felt and she spent her time watching the windswept rain pound against the foggy windows, an open book left unread in her lap as she waited for Mr. Gold to come back.  
  
She had not understood how dear he had become to her until his absence forced her to spend some time in self-reflection, but it didn’t take long for her to realize the truth; that she had fallen deeply in love with the man whom society had scorned. She did not see the baseborn man they so reviled, but the gentle soul with the biting wit and cunning intelligence which earned him the fortune that made him the envy of those very people who scorned him.  
  
By the time of the first snowfall, she had reconciled herself to idea that she may never see Mr. Gold again, leaving an ache deep within her very bones. She felt tired and sorry and sick of her moping about the cottage like a love-sick puppy. She tried to take an interest in her regular activities, but she’d read all of her books before and all of her favorites were in the library at Avonlea as they were a part of a collection left with the house. She considered sneaking into the house again to retrieve a couple of treasured books, sure that, if she was caught a second time, that Mr. Gold wouldn’t react as he had when they first met.  
  
It was a nice notion and she dismissed it after indulging in a sweet daydream wherein she followed through with her plan and reunited with her missing friend. Shaking her head at her foolishness, she closed her book and set it aside, looking up again at the sound of carriage wheels coming closer up the gravel drive. She gasped in joy as she recognized it, Mr. Gold had finally remembered her and a thrill of excitement coursed through her, sending her fingertips tingling as she ran to the mirror to quickly check her appearance before he entered. She had looked better, the sleepless nights and restless days had taken their toll upon her, but she would not deny him entry. She wanted to know where he had been, why he stayed away for so long, and if he planned on doing so again in the immediate future. The weather was too dreadful to venture outside, but it had been a nearly month since he’d last paid a visit so she could not believe her father would have any serious objection.  
  
He was announced immediately and limped into the room with his hat tucked up under his arm, bowing to her in a short, jerky movement that was unlike his usual manner. He sat when Belle asked him to, but there was a restlessness about him that spoke of unhappiness.  
  
“I won’t trouble you for long, Miss French, but I wanted to offer my felicitations in person,” he began, looking miserable and sounding wretched as if he had spent an evening screaming to the heavens.  
  
Belle frowned in confusion. “Felicitations for what, sir? I don’t understand.”  
  
He glanced up at her through that fall of hair. “Your betrothal,” he said, hoarsely. “It was announced in the paper this morning.” He took out a folded sheet of newspaper and handed it to her.  
  
Belle’s face drained of blood and she felt as if her heart had dropped into her feet entirely. “My… my what? I know of no such thing!” She plucked it from him with numb fingers, scanning it for the information and, there, halfway down the column was the announcement of her acceptance of Sir Gaston’s hand.  
  
“Gaston?” she cried in horror. “That’s—that’s preposterous! I would rather—” she stopped and wracked her brain for the appropriate words, but there were no words in her vocabulary strong enough to express the displeasure she felt. Her frustration welled up until she couldn't bear it any longer and before she was aware of what she was doing, she snatched a teacup from the tray and dashed it against the carpet but even the sound of crashing china did not relieve her anger. “Who printed this?”  
  
Gold looked on at her in wonderment. “Well, that certainly answers my most pressing question,” he said, speaking slowly as if she might hurl the sugar bowl at his head if he spoke too loudly.  
  
She rounded upon him, her chest heaving as she gulped for air. She pressed her hands to her cheeks, they were hot and wet with angry tears. “I don’t understand. I never agreed to marry Gaston!”  
  
“Someone certainly believes you have.”  
  
“But he never asked me,” she insisted, throwing the paper after the cup.  
  
He stood up, advancing upon her slowly. “And if he had?”  
  
She scoffed, folding he arms against her chest. “I would have sent him away. I could never marry a man such as him. He’s nothing like—” she stopped, remembering herself and dragged a shaking hand across her brow. “Forgive me,” she said. “I’m not-not fit for company.” She sniffed angrily.  
  
Instead of taking the hint, he put his hand in his coat pocket fumbling with something kept inside of it. “Poor Gaston had no chance then,” he said, clearly relieved. “And-and Mr. Scarlet? Is he where your affections lie?”  
  
“With _Will_?” she asked, nearly laughing at the thought. “No, sir. Will is a friend only. I’ve known him since we were children. That is all.” The sniffles wouldn’t stop and she knelt down to pick up the cup she’d thrown in her fit. She was embarrassed to allow her temper to get the best of her in front of Mr. Gold, but she felt that he might understand. He looked as if he might have thrown a cup or two in his life.  
  
“I’m afraid it’s chipped,” Gold said as she picked it up from the carpet. “Lucky it didn’t smash to bits.”  
  
She looked at him, smiling wearily before placing it back on the table with the others. “It’s just a cup,” she said. “I’m sorry for losing my temper just now, sir. I’m not normally like this, I promise.”  
  
He answered with a tight-lipped smile. “I believe you. I imagine finding yourself engaged without your consent would be enough to cause anyone to be angry enough to dash the entire contents of their china cabinet to the ground.”  
  
She sputtered a weak laugh. “Indeed, sir. I think that might make me feel a bit better.” She sighed, feeling calmer now. “That doesn’t answer the question of who put that in the paper and why.” She continued her pacing while Gold watched her, both deep within their own thoughts.

"Sir Gaston has been in close conversation with my father," Belle said after a moment. "they must have come to an understanding between them and, not knowing my dislike for him, my father agreed to the betrothal. It's the only explanation I can think of." She turned her head away, feeling the dismay well up all over again. "And all done without informing me," she said, sorrowfully.  
  
“Do you intend to break?”  
  
“I do,” she said, firmly. “I must. Even if I’m labeled the worst sort of jilt in England. I’d rather be a jilt than the wife of Gaston. Could you imagine _me_ married to that beast?” she asked, aghast at the notion.  
  
“I confess I cannot,” he muttered, his eyes darkening.  
  
She sat down on the setee, folding her hands in her lap and he followed suit, sitting in his usual chair by the window.  
  
“Miss French—” he began, but Belle cut him off.  
  
“Not Miss Thief?” she asked, smirking.  
  
He smiled, a warm thing that reached his eyes and he looked upon her with such joy that her breath was once again stolen from her.  
  
“I have something of yours,” he said after a moment. He pulled a small, carved wooden box out of his pocket and gave it to her with a shaking hand.  
  
“My mother’s ring,” she exclaimed. “You’ve found it at last!”  
  
He nodded. “It was packed away in a spare room. Mrs. Potts found it at last.”  
  
“I told you she was good,” she said, opening the box up to find the simple band engraved with faint markings around it.  
  
“You did,” he said before getting up again, taking his hat up. “I must leave now, Miss French.”  
  
“You’re going already?” she asked, looking up at him in dismay. “But you just got here and you’ve been gone so long.”  
  
He breathed in deeply, looking down at the cane in his hands. “I… Miss French, I must confess something and I don’t know how to say it without... seeming like a monster.”  
  
She looked at him, her eyes wandering over his face as she searched for answers. “Just tell me, Mr. Gold.”  
  
He glanced up at her. “I, uh, I’ve had possession of your ring from the first. I mean, I found it the day you told me about it. I went home, walked straight into my chambers, and found it in the drawer you said it would be.”  
  
Belle’s jaw dropped and once again she found herself in the unlucky position of impersonating a goldfish in front of him. “The same day?” she asked, confused. “But why did you keep it from me when you knew I missed it so?”  
  
“Aye, there’s another confession,” he said with a mirthless chuckle. “I did it… _Miss Thief_ ,” he said with a wry smile and nod of his head. “Because… I wished to be able to pay a visit or two. I was never going to keep it, I just liked you too much to give it up.”  
  
He looked ashamed of himself, then, and Belle longed to embrace him. She settled for hurrying towards him, laying a hand on his sleeve.  
  
“But you could have visited after you gave me the ring. I would not have refused you.”  
  
“You wouldn’t have?” he asked, surprised.  
  
“No.”  
  
“Well, that’s something, then. I apologize for keeping it so long from you. I—” he stopped, licking his lips nervously before standing straight and looking her in the eyes. “I would like to give you another ring,” he said in a low, soft voice. “One you would wear upon your wedding day. But—"  
  
“Mr. Gold,” she breathed. “Are you…”  
  
“Asking you for your hand in marriage?” he said, awed at his own daring. “I suppose that I am. I’d never hoped that you would care for me in that way, nor could I expect you to accept my suit, but I’ve fallen into such… I _love_ you, Miss French. Dearly and wholly and when I woke up this morning and found that you had been betrothed I never knew such pain in my life. I came her to give you your ring and wish you happiness, but I can’t wish you happy with that buffoon. He cannot make you so.”  
  
“I’m not going to marry Gaston,” she reminded him, gently, taking his hand in hers and pressing it to her heart.  
  
“No,” he agreed, staring in amazement at her and at where she was holding his hand in turns. “No, you’re not.”  
  
“I’m going to marry you, Mr. Gold. And I don’t care what anyone says about it, except for you.”  
  
“You _are_?” he breathed.  
  
“I am, sir. Because I, too, fell in love with the most… wonderful, ridiculous man I have ever met and I couldn’t be happier if I tried,” she told him, smiling through the tears that fell from her eyes.  
  
She took his hat away from his limp fingers and flung it to the settee and, as he lowered his head to gently press his lips upon hers, she stood up on her tiptoes to better reach him. His hair was just as soft and silky as she’d imagined it would be and she found herself quickly taking advantage of her newfound status to card her fingers through it, releasing the strands from its confining ribbon so she could pull him closer. His lips were warm and soft and they kissed the breath out of her until she found herself shaking in his arms, quivering with happiness as she looked up at his loving eyes.  
  
“Miss Thief,” he said with a gentle smile on his lips.  
  
“I’m told you,” she said, laughingly, poking at his chest with a finger. “I’m not a thief!  
  
“Oh, but you are, my dearest Belle. For you’ve stolen my heart.”


	7. The Switch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> The Heist was SO AMAZING!!!! How did Belle's father react to the sudden change of fiancee? XD

“Did you want to speak to him first or shall I?” Mr. Gold asked, cupping her cheek with a warm hand, his eyes shining at her lovingly.

“I’ll go in, but I’m sure he’ll want to speak to you after…” she trailed off, looking worried for a brief moment before shaking her head and looking decisive once more. “No, come with me,” she urged. “I feel it will go better if you’ll wait outside the door. I would like the comfort of your presence nearby in case he doesn’t take it well.”

She led him to the back where Sir Maurice’s workroom was located, the door shut tight against any visitors, but Maurice’s injunction had never included Belle so she turned the knob and stepped into the room without hesitation.

Maurice looked up, startled at first, then his face cleared when he caught sight of his daughter. “Belle, my treasure! I was just about to come see you about an important matter.”

“Yes, I’ve read all about it in the paper,” she said, her irritation made perfectly clear by her tone of voice and Maurice paled somewhat when he realized that Belle wasn’t going to marry Sir Gaston without a fight. “I have some news for you, too, Papa, but first I want to know why you thought you had the right to betroth me to someone like Sir Gaston without my permission. I didn’t even know about it until minutes ago. What were you thinking?”

Maurice licked his lips, his eyes searching the room looking everywhere but at his daughter until she cleared her throat, drawing his attention back to her.

“I did not like that Mr. Gold was paying you any attention, Belle. I feared that he would want you for himself.”

“And so you schemed with a man with whom I could not possibly be happy? Just to get me out of Mr. Gold’s influence?”

“I—yes, I did. But, you must see it’s for your own good! You will learn to be happy with Sir Gaston, I know it!” he said, his hands gripping the edge of his work bench until the glass bottles rattled dangerously.

She shook her head at him. “I have some news for you, but you must listen to me — listen to me, Father and not brush me off as you have been doing these past few months.” She took a deep breath, then began. “The first is, I refuse to be married to that man. Nothing you can say would ever induce me to change my mind. He is entirely repugnant to me and I would rather join a convent than marry him.” Belle waited for her father to nod his head in understanding before she went on.

“Second, due to your negligence in retrieving my mother’s ring, you have brought to bear the very thing you were trying to prevent. I’ve been in Mr. Gold’s company repeatedly over the past few months and have found him to be a most worthy gentleman despite your prejudices against him. You also might be interested to know that he has recovered Mama’s ring and returned it to me.”

“That man is not a gentleman,” Maurice spat out, his face turning purple.

“Perhaps not by birth, but he is a gentleman by his goodness of character, his sweetness of temper, and his modesty of spirit, all of which speaks to my heart. His intelligence and imagination are unequaled and I hold no one in higher esteem than I do him. I have accepted his suit, Papa, and I mean to have him.”

“Belle!” he cried, weakly.

“Settle this with Sir Gaston however you wish. Marry him yourself if you think it necessary, but you will accept my choice or you will not see me again. It’s up to you.”

He stared at her, open mouthed “You’re just like your mother,” he whispered hoarsely. “She was just as willful, just as stubborn…” He braced himself, heavily, on the bench, his head hanging down in defeat. “Her obstinacy is what allowed me to marry her in the first place,” he told her. “Did you know that?” he asked, looking up.

Belle shook her head, her fingers trembling as they fisted into her muslin skirts. “No, sir.”

“She was to marry another — her father willed it, but Colette had other ideas,” he smiled sadly in remembrance. “She never spoke to him again.” He took a deep breath and let it out slowly before looking up at his daughter, tears flowing freely down his cheeks. “I don’t want that to happen to us, Arabella,” he said, addressing her with her full name. “Send Mr. Gold in and I’ll see what he has to say. I promise you I’ll listen.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> lady-therion asked:  
> Hullo and cheers from a former giftee! Is Heist!Gold pleased to give Belle her ancestral home back? And is Heist!Belle pleased to be called Mrs. Gold?

“There is one thing that has puzzled me from the beginning,” Gold said as he led her by the hand up the front steps towards the staff that was lined up waiting to receive their new mistress. Belle smiled up at them, recognizing some familiar faces from her first tenure at Avonlea, Mrs. Potts’ cheerful face at the forefront of them all.

“What is that, sir,” she asked, amused at how he was leading her when, in all probability, she was better equipped to show him around the house.

They had reached the top and his answering smirk left her breathless where the climb did not. He leaned down to whisper in her ear, “How in the blazes did you manage to sneak in that first night? I haven’t been able to figure it out since. You quite disappeared into thin air.”

Her face heated up as she remembered her foolish night-time tryst.

“I’ll show you the trick later,” she promised, squeezing his hand with her own as Mrs. Potts curtsied deeply at her smitten employer and his blushing, young wife.

Gold turned to his wife with a curious and dark look in his eyes, but his unwavering pleasure was self-evident when he said with some warmth, “Welcome back to Avonlea, Mrs. Gold.”


End file.
